


Affidavit

by rufflefeather



Series: Objection Overruled [1]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Drug Use, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You need to call security and the police, possibly 911,” Mike says and immediately whatever retribution Jessica was going to throw out for imposing on her very valuable time is dropped in lieu of rising to her considerable height.</p><p>“What?” she says. </p><p>“I think Harvey is being held under gunpoint by Mr Moorman.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affidavit

**Author's Note:**

> The past drug use mentions are a brief recollection of a bad high from smoking pot. 
> 
> It's likely that the rating of this series will go up to Mature or Explicit. 
> 
> Unbetad.

The first thing that tips him off is the smile on Harvey’s face. It’s wide and toothy and there for far too long. It’s just wrong.

“Is this,” Mike begins, glancing from Harvey to the client on his couch and back again, “a bad time? Because I can always,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Not at all,” Harvey says, the smile, impossibly, widening. He opens his hands, palms up, and leans back in his chair. “Mike, this is Mr Moorman from––”

“The Moorman & Moorman intellectual property case,” Mike finishes. “Nice to meet you.” He reaches out but Mr Moorman briefly shakes his head. It’s odd, but not unheard of with the swine flu, avian flu and god knows what else people keep sneezing into their hands. The dip of his head is not unfriendly so Mike takes it in his stride. “So are you the Moorman who won?”

“No,” Mr Moorman says, “I’m the other one.”

“Oh.” Well. That’s awkward. 

Mike glances at Harvey, expecting an eye roll or a, ‘get out of my office, you’re making me look bad, rookie’- look but there’s neither. The smile’s still there, and for all that he _seems_ relaxed, he’s not. There’s a pinch around his eyes Mike has only seen there after burning the midnight oil for a week, or when he comes out of Jessica’s office with his spine just a bit too straight in the way that tells Mike Harvey has disappointed her. For all Harvey Specter claims not to care about anyone but Harvey Specter, disappointing Jessica sure puts a scowl on his face.

Mr Moorman is still looking at Mike, like he’s waiting for Mike to say what he came here to say and leave, while Harvey’s entire body language is subtly screaming … something. 

“Well,” Mike says, “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. I just wanted to give you these briefs you asked for, Harvey,” Mike slips the folder onto Harvey’s desk. “I proofed them this morning and they’re good to go. If there isn’t anything else you need, I’m off for lunch. Do you want me to bring you anything back?”

“Mike,” Harvey says, leaning forward just a little, eyes black like tar and just as flammable, boring straight into Mike’s. He pauses and Mike feels something creep up his spine. “Just get me a coffee, lots of cream, two sugars.”

“Okay, sure,” Mike says. He takes a step back and smiles as he turns to the door. “Mr Moorman,” he says in greeting.

“Mike,” Mr Moorman says and then Mike is out the door.

"Donna,” Mike says and he suppresses the urge to look back. He’s not sure how this intercom system works exactly, so he changes track.

“Still not distracting, Mike,” she says without looking up.

“Ha, no, I just wanted to know if I can get you something for lunch.”

Her eyes flick to the clock on her computer, to Harvey’s office and to Mike’s face. “You know what,” she says, “I think I’ll come with you.”

With a swipe of her mouse, she’s logged out of her computer and exactly thirty seven seconds later, they’re in Jessica’s office.

“You need to call security and the police, possibly 911,” Mike says and immediately whatever retribution Jessica was going to throw out for imposing on her very valuable time is dropped in lieu of rising to her considerable height.

“What?” she says. 

“I think Harvey is being held under gunpoint by Mr Moorman.”

“The one we won the intellectual property case for?” Donna asks.

“No, the other one.”

“Oh no,” Jessica says. She rubs her face, takes only a second or two to allow the dread to weigh her shoulders down before she shakes it off and presses a button. She talks into her phone, swift, brief and to the point. It’s maybe three or four minutes since Mike has left Harvey. “Where are you going,” she asks, only it’s not a question, it’s a command to stay where he is.

Mike turns around, his hand on the stainless steel door handle. He looks at her and she looks at him. She knows before he even says it: “You can’t stop me.”

//

Harvey’s standing up. He has his back to the windows, so Mr Moorman has his back to the door. Mike knows Harvey’s seen him, but he gives no indication at all. His hands are raised slightly, more placating than in surrender, while Mr Moorman calmly points a gun at him. It’s weird. Mike thinks he’d feel less like his world is about to fall apart if Mr Moorman only wouldn’t look so composed. This isn’t a man who is doing stupid things out of panic. This is someone who has thought very carefully about what he’s about to do.

Mike thinks quickly, going over every meager detail he knows about the case. He wasn’t involved at all, so it’s not much and for the first time in as long as he can remember, he comes up empty.

It’s not like it matters.

The door opens with a small squeak, a comforting, familiar sound he’s heard over and over and Mr Moorman turns to him.

“Mike,” Harvey says, his composure slipping just a little, “why did you come back?”

He doesn’t get the chance to answer.

“Yes, Mike,” Mr Moorman asks, curious, “why did you come back? I take it the police is on their way?”

“They are,” Mike says. He feels oddly apologetic when he turns to Harvey. “I wasn’t going to leave you here on your own.”

“He has a _gun_ , Mike,” Harvey says with a bit of that old exasperation, like it would’ve been remotely possible to miss it, the way it sits heavy and fucking petrifyingly steady in Mr Moorman’s hand. 

“Exactly,” Mike says. Harvey breathes like he’s been punched.

“You know I’ve got nothing to lose, Mike,” Mr Moorman says. “You shouldn’t have come back. The police will never get here in time. I’ve said all I’ve wanted to say. My life is over.” 

He aims, he curls his trigger finger, he fires. 

//

It doesn’t hurt half as much as he thought it would. It’s not far off from getting high with Trevor. The bad kind of hit, the kind where it seeps into his bones and makes them rattle, where it hurts his teeth, where it flares like bitter panic in his chest. 

“Mike,” Harvey says. His hands are warm on Mike’s side. “What did you do that for?”

“Well,” Mike says, twisting to look up at Harvey’s face, and, oh no, nope, he was wrong. It hurts like a _motherfucker_. “Your time runs at a thousand dollars an hour and mine––" he breathes and laughs at the same time, only it comes out like a wet gurgle. He hopes the bullet didn’t go through a lung, because he sat the USMLE’s once so he knows exactly how much that would suck.

“Stop talking,” Harvey tells him, “or I will bill you for my time, and trust me, on top of what you’ll owe me for bleeding all over my suit––" He stops, then, and Mike really wishes he’d go on, because that’s a look on Harvey’s face he’d rather not see. It doesn’t bode well for anyone. He wants to think about that some more, about Harvey Specter, the best closer in New York, the Captain James T. Kirk of corporate law, caring about the fate of his associate, but the world is sort of blinking out of existence. There’s these black dots swimming before his eyes, turning into small black holes sucking up his vision.

//

“I’m regretting this decision already,” Harvey says, and Mike knows that if he wasn’t holding a tray he’d be rubbing his temples now.

“Shut up,” Mike says, levering himself higher onto Harvey’s spare bed, the thousand thread count solid Egyptian cotton sheets a nice offset against the pain in his side. He mutes the Simpsons. “I took a bullet for you.”

“You’ll never let me forget that, will you,” Harvey says, but he’s setting the tray down and hooking a hand under Mike’s arm to help him sit up. His lips are pressed together like he’s trying not to smile, so Mike knows they’re good.

“No,” he says happily. “You owe me for life.”

“Considering you'd be smoking pot and sitting tests for other people and wasting your life away if it weren't for me, I say we’re even.” Harvey sits down on the edge of the bed and twists toward Mike, one eyebrow rising in challenge.

“Considering I wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for you, I say we’re not.” It’s the wrong thing to tell him, really, because the not-smile falls off Harvey’s face and he’s staring at Mike like it’s the first, or maybe the last, time he sees him. 

“I,” he says, quiet and low, “I’m in your debt.”

“Hey,” Mike waits until Harvey meets his eyes again. “Can I have that in writing?”

“I’ll draw up an affidavit tomorrow,” Harvey tells him and the smile is back. Mike isn’t really aware of the fact that he’s got his fingers wrapped around Harvey’s wrist until Harvey carefully works it free and reaches for the tray. 

“Is that,” Mike starts to grin when Harvey hands him a steaming cup, “hot chocolate?”

“Donna tells me it’s your favorite.”

“How does Donna––" know it’s how Gram used to console him after having panic attacks when waking up with the realization he’d never see his parents again. 

Harvey looks down, says, “Donna knows everything,” very quietly, and hooks his little finger over Mike’s.


End file.
